21. Libby
Libby
Jack Dawson
O ne hour left on shift.
Sixty. Long. Minutes.
The phones remain quiet but for Drake’s incessant nagging.
Tiffany remains at her desk, and at shift change, the new guys come in and barely notice that I walk out again without a single word.
The family I claim at this station are at a wedding getting hammered right now.
But the opposite shift guys; we barely even know each other.
Eleven years, and I’ve hardly taken the time to get to know them.
I know Alex, because he’s the one I so desperately crave approval from. And I know Oz, because we’re together far too often not to be family. I knew Cruz, but he was a Bishop rat – the good kind – and now he’s a Bishop employee.
That’s as far as my family stretches, and all of them are at a wedding across town while I drive home all alone in my beater car.
Maybe Gunner is waiting for me to come to him. But what about me? Why must I be that person? Why can’t I have my knight come save me for once? Why must I always be the strong one?
Sighing, I pull into my parking space out front of my apartment building and kill the engine. I’ve spent so much of my life being the tomboy, the girl who needs no one to take care of her. But I want him to want me so much that he can’t stay away.
Of course I’m aware of the hypocrisy. I see it as clear as if our story were on a daytime TV show. I understand it, and if it was someone else’s relationship, I’d roll my eyes. But that doesn’t make it easier on my heart.
I want him to be so impossibly in love with me that he can’t stay away. I want that kind of passion, or I want nothing at all.
Tugging my keys from the ignition, I slide out of the car and slam the door closed.
The people loitering at the end of the block have cop radars of some sort pinging in their brains, because the second my boots hit the tar road, their heads come up, their eyes lock onto my uniform, and then their feet pivot and drag them out of sight to finish up their dealings.
I should go to them. I should search their pockets, and when I inevitably find drugs, toss them into lockup for a couple nights.
But that’s not what I do.
I walk along the concrete pathway and through the glass front doors of my building. I stop briefly at the mailboxes, check mine – bills, bills, and a wine coupon ‘ Buy a hundred dollars’ worth, get fifty dollars off! ’
Terrible target marketing, considering I don’t drink.
I toss the coupon in the trash on the way past, then head up the stairs and pass noisy apartment doors while everyone watches the evening news. If I listen extra hard, I can catch sound clips, and Theo’s name being tossed around.
Griffin Industries is making national headlines tonight; perfect for my sour mood, I suppose.
I should have stopped at Dixie’s and bought ice cream.
I clear the first floor with sluggish steps. Then the second. I stomp up the stairs to third, and shake my head when my neighbors close their doors as they catch sight of me at the top.
These people hate cops, but they seem to enjoy having me here. They mind their own business if I mind mine. And since most of them work and are simply trying to make ends meet, I leave them be, and keep the dealers off our front step.
I approach my front door with a heavy heart and a pathetic pout. Maybe I should stop being so stubborn. Go to him, and we’ll work the rest out later.
Pushing the keys in and releasing the locks, I feel a heaviness in the air as I slowly push the door open. A part of me wonders if he might be sitting on my couch, holding the ratty sweater, and waiting with the crooked grin an eleven-year-old boy used to flash without remorse.
And another part of me wonders if the Bishops have set spring-loaded explosives to detonate when I push the door open.
It’s ridiculous, of course, but that heaviness in the air makes me think crazy things.
I push the door open with slow movements, and when it doesn’t explode, and my couch remains Bishop-free, I sigh and close it again.
My wild imagination made me panic at the thought of explosives.
I don’t want to go down that way, but my empty couch seems to hurt so much more.
Suddenly, a fast, painless death seems almost cheery.
I’m such a mess.
I toss my keys and phone onto the island counter as I pass, and then just like my father always used to do, I unclip my belt and grunt when the weight of all my shit drags my arm down.
My pants started today with a perfectly ironed pleat, but that’s gone now, and in its place are wrinkles from sitting at a desk.
My shirt was starched, stiff, and comforting in symbolism only.
But now it flops, and when I run my hand over my stomach, I find one of the buttons undone.
Perfect .
I pass my couch and flip the TV on. I need sound. I always need sound.
I need Gunner Bishop.
Griffin’s name fills my living room within a second of the TV powering up. I didn’t even have to search for the channel, it’s right there, and though hearing them say his name makes me scowl, it also makes my heart thud with nerves.
I pass the little red sweater, folded and neat on the arm of the couch, and yearn for a lifetime of missed opportunities.
I don’t have to spend the next twenty years hugging a sweater and mourning. If I could let go of my pride and go to him, I could hug the real thing. And he’d have me. He already promised he would.
I pass my couch and move into the hall, and with the intention of tossing my belt onto my dresser to declare today done, I swing the door wide, only to scream like a total idiot at the broad man that sits on the edge of my bed.
I’m supposed to be a cop, a hardened officer who absolutely doesn’t scream or – worse yet – toss my damn belt and everything strapped into it at my intruder.
But that’s what I do. I toss my shit and scream, and when those blue eyes come up and meet mine, I scream for a whole other reason and throw myself into Gunner’s lap.
I wrap my arms and legs around his body, and as I squeeze, my heart gives that final twist that the sweater tried to achieve in the living room.
“I was gonna come to you.” Traitorous tears slide over my cheeks as I squeeze him tight and press kisses to his face. His forehead. His cheeks. His nose. His lips.
Gunner’s hands mold to my ass, kneading, demanding, as his heart pounds just as violently as mine does.
“I was going to pack a bag and come to you.”
“You were?” His breath comes in heavy pants.
He was sitting when I arrived, unmoving, but he pants now as though he’s run a race.
From passiveness where he accepted my kisses, to taking control and kissing me back, his hands race away from my hips, only to stop on my face and hold me prisoner. “You were gonna come to me? You swear?”
“Yes.” I kiss his lips once. Twice. A dozen times. “Yes, I wasn’t gonna make it another night. I was choosing between your sweater or you.”
“Both.” He grunts as I move in his lap and grind over his erection. “You can have both. I’m sorry I left.”
“It’s okay. We can make it work, okay? I’ll come with you.” I kiss him again. And again. And again. “You don’t have to give up Griffin for me. I’ll come with you.”
“Really?” He pulls back. “Because I already packed my shit and moved in.” He lifts his chin toward a black duffel unlike the fancy suitcases he had last time.
When he first came to town, he was here as Theo Griffin. Fancy suitcases, fancy suits, fancy watch and laptops. But this time, he’s wearing jeans, his things are in a duffel bag, and his beloved cell phone is nowhere in sight.
“I choose you, Lib. The rest can go to shit. I’ll find someone to run Griffin for me. I can share that, but I can’t share you.”
“Oh God.” I whimper when he pushes up and grinds against my most sensitive place. My most neglected place. “We’ll make it work. I promise.” I hurriedly unbutton his shirt and push it back to reveal strong shoulders.
Our lips slide together, our tongues duel, and our teeth clash, but he smiles and goes to work on my shirt.
“It’s fun to fuck you, Libby. It might be my most favorite way to pass time, but this uniform is giving me the heebie-jeebies.
” He rebelliously tears my shirt open, his mutiny against the job I chose so many years ago.
He could have unfastened the buttons. He could have been gentle, but he’d rather make a statement and tear it open to show who’s in charge and where he stands on his love for the police.
He pushes my shirt back so my arms tangle in the fabric, then he tears my bra down and pops a breast free. My spine is arched, my tits presented in offering, and hungrily, he takes one between his lips until I cry out.
The past week felt far longer than the last twenty years. How is that possible?
Because I was living without the one person I can’t survive without. Before his re-emergence in my life, I didn’t have a choice. He was dead, and the only option I had was to live without him… or die. But this week, I found out he was alive. I learned he was within reach.
“I love you, Gunner. I don’t wanna be stubborn anymore. I want you.”
“Thank God.” He lifts me with one fast movement, flips us, and slams me onto the bed with such power that the oxygen in my lungs races out and leaves me empty.
I gasp for air as though I’ve just broken the surface of a lake, but then he’s here, his chest presses to mine, his hands are all over my body.
His legs rest between mine, his lips control mine.
There’s nowhere for me to turn. Nothing to see but him.
There’s nowhere to go. So I let him control me the way we both know he needs to.